


Stolen Moments

by FrostyEmma



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1950s, Ballroom Dancing, Blow Jobs, Cold War, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Wall Sex, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9168178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostyEmma/pseuds/FrostyEmma
Summary: But in the meantime, he has her in his arms, and their bodies are pressed tightly together, and he leans in, his lips just grazing the shell of her ear. “I have a few hours,” he whispers. “Some time to waste.”She pulls back slightly and looks at him, eyes gleaming. “Don’t you mean ‘some time to kill’?”He can’t help but snort. Or maybe grin. Maybe both. “Oh, that’s dark.” They twirl across the dance floor. “Even for you.”“You love it,” she murmurs, and rests her head on his shoulder, and he thinks he loves her, but he would never, ever risk saying something so monumentally stupid.A spy and an assassin grab a few moments together between missions.





	

They meet in the middle of a crowded ballroom. 

The room is a swirl of color; the women in expensive gowns of crepe or chiffon, the men in either tuxedos or formal military dress, and all of them wearing masks of every color, style, and adornment. But despite her mask - a gold domino trimmed in black lace and fringed with soft black feathers - he knows her.

Her red hair is swept up in soft waves, and she wears a billowing, strapless black gown of layered tulle, adorned with some sort of draping scarf. He knows very little about fashion, but he knows her, and he knows that under such an elaborate gown are a few elaborately hidden weapons.

She nevers fails to amaze him.

They meet in the middle of the room, and she gives him an unsubtle once over - in his tuxedo and his black domino mask, he could be another faceless member of the bourgeoisie - the corners of her mouth quirking into a hint of that smirk he loves so much.

“You clean up well,” she says in practiced French, and takes his hand, and then they swirl out onto the dance floor. “Someone must have tied that bow tie for you.”

There are less likely to be French speakers in a ballroom in the middle of East Berlin in 1957, but one can never be too careful. 

Not if one plans to stay alive for very long anyway.

One gloved hand goes around her waist, though he just _barely_ resists tracing his fingers down her bare shoulder instead. She notices - of course she does - and her lips blossom into a full-blown smirk, and it’s all he can do not to kiss her right then and there.

But that would throw the mission. Just a bit.

There are three traitors to the Motherland in the ballroom. He has their names. He has their faces. By the end of the evening, he’ll have their lives, and then there will be three fewer men working to undermine the glory and purpose of the Soviet Union.

So says General Karpov, and the soldier has his orders. 

But in the meantime, he has _her_ in his arms, and their bodies are pressed tightly together, and he leans in, his lips just grazing the shell of her ear. “I have a few hours,” he whispers. “Some time to waste.”

She pulls back slightly and looks at him, eyes gleaming. “Don’t you mean ‘some time to kill’?”

He can’t help but snort. Or maybe grin. Maybe both. “Oh, that’s dark.” They twirl across the dance floor. “Even for you.”

“You love it,” she murmurs, and rests her head on his shoulder, and he thinks he loves _her_ , but he would never, ever risk saying something so monumentally stupid.

Maybe.

Not yet.

He doesn’t know.

They dance in comfortable, close silence, two bodies swaying together with the seductive pull of the violins. Her head is on his shoulder and his hand is at the small of her back, and they move like they were made for each other.

He thinks this is what happiness feels like.

The orchestra concludes its suite, and he reluctantly pulls away, and she smiles at him and leads him off the dance floor and then leaves him alone for a moment. She returns with two crystalline glasses of what looks like pink fruit juice.

She takes a sip and a slow smile spreads across her face. “I think someone spiked the punch.”

He tries his own glass, and it _burns_ going down. “Understatement. There’s enough vodka in there to knock out…” He frowns, but can’t think of anything good. 

“You?” Her smile turns playful. 

He tosses off the rest of the drink and savors the burn this time. “That would take a lot of vodka.”

She tilts her head and looks up at him. “How much would it take to get you to follow me down the hall?”

He licks his lips. Pretends to consider it. “Exactly nothing.”

If he could, he would follow her anywhere. He doesn’t say that though. Some things aren’t safe to say.

She looks at him for a moment. Sets her glass down on a nearby table and walks away, though she pauses to give him a slow glance over her shoulder.

It takes considerable willpower not to follow her immediately. He waits a beat. Another. Scans the room, and when it’s clear that no one is paying attention, he traces her path out of the ballroom and down a long hallway. 

A spy and an assassin meet at a fancy dress ball. He wishes that were the start of a joke, but it’s not. One is likely there to gather crucial intel about the often faithless German communist leaders and bring it to her superiors in Moscow. The other is there to neutralize three who have already proven faithless. 

That their paths continue to cross is one of life’s few pleasures.

She waits for him at the end of the hallway, arms folded, leaning against the door with a smile on her face. “Took you long enough.”

“Well, you know.” He shrugs. “I wanted to schmooze a bit. Work the room. Make a few business connections.”

She rolls her eyes, then flings the door open. Grabs him by his bow tie. “Get in here.” 

Here turns out to be a supply closet, but he can’t be bothered to care. He’ll take what he can get. Supply closet, hotel room, dance floor, halting conversations in locker rooms and on the shooting range. 

The stolen moments between one mission and the next.

He pulls off the stupid domino mask and tosses it on one of the shelves, then does the same with hers. Some of the feathers catch in the soft waves of her hair, and she laughs, brushes them aside.

Their lips are on each other then, desperately, hungrily. Their arms are around each other. Her fingers tangle into the curls of his hair, and she pulls him bodily against her until her back bumps up against the door.

“Natalia.” He breathes her name with adoration, with desire and need and _reverence_. He trails a line of kisses from her mouth, down her neck, and onto her bare shoulders. “Natalia.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registers that she’s never had a name for him. Never anything besides ‘Soldier’, and that can’t be right. That really shouldn’t be right, but her fingers are scrabbling at the button on his trousers now, and her hands are reaching into his drawers, and then her fingers are around him, and he can’t be bothered to think anymore.

She strokes him, cool fingers wrapped around firm hardness, and he leans into her. Moans her name like a prayer on his lips.

“Natalia…”

“You’d better keep quiet,” she whispers, a smile playing across her lips. And then without warning, she drops to her knees and takes him in her mouth, and all of his thoughts spin away somewhere, and all he can do is lean his head against the door and squeeze his eyes shut and feel her warm, wet mouth working around him.

In no time at all, he rattles apart with a cry that he stifles with a fist to his mouth. 

She looks up at him. Stands slowly and licks her lips. And then she puts a hand on his head and pushes him gently to his knees.

He sinks to the floor willingly and runs his hands up the length of her legs, fingers sliding over silk stockings. He stops at the thigh holsters, finding a small pistol and other weapons, and smirks his love up at her, then keeps going, fingers hooking over the waistband of her underwear. Careful to leave the garter belt in place and mindful of the weapons, he slides her underwear down and further down, and then tosses it away.

“Careful now,” she murmurs, fingers carding casually through his hair.

“Always,” he says, and then dives under the layers of tulle. His mouth meets the apex of her thighs, and then he’s sliding his tongue into her, eager for every taste she can give him. 

He knows he must be doing something right by the way she stifles her own moans, by the way her fingers began to clench and pull his hair.

She finishes with a barely muffled cry, and he comes out from under her skirts, smiling and slick with her juices, and she she hooks a finger under his bow tie and pulls him up toward her. 

They mash their lips together, tongues sliding desperately against each other, her arms around his neck. His hands travel down and down, hiking up the layers of tulle, palms cupping the firm globes of her ass, and her legs scissor around his waist as he lifts her up against the door.

He slides into her with a gasp, her name devout on his lips. 

“Natalia,” he breathes, as if her name is oxygen. “Natalia.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. She squeezes him tight with her exquisite thighs, her eyes closed and her beautiful mouth open and gasping. These are all the words or encouragement he needs.

This is what they have: a stolen moment in time, a pause in the steady, merciless drumbeat of their lives. 

And then, too soon - always too soon - the moment comes to an end.

They help tidy each other up. She smooths out his tuxedo, straightens his bow tie. He tucks a loose curl of red hair behind her ear and helps reaffix her feathered mask. 

She leaves first without a word, though she presses a kiss to the tips of his fingers on each hand.

He waits five minutes and then slips out the door.

There is work to be done that evening.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE THE FIRST  
> Written for Impossiblypossible as part of the BuckyNat Secret Santa on tumblr. They asked for one of the following:  
> 1\. royalty au  
> 2\. masquerade  
> 3\. anything painful really. Make me cry?
> 
> A well-written AU is outside of my area of expertise, and 2016 has been painful enough, so I went with door number 2. 
> 
> NOTE THE SECOND  
> Comments and kudos are author catnip, and so they are warmly welcomed, appreciated, and hoped for! Thanks for reading!


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